


Tender

by meinposhbastard



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Fluff, M/M, could be seen as a canon divergence pre-everything, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-05 17:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14623278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/pseuds/meinposhbastard
Summary: There's a regular customer that frequents this bar. He disturbs nobody, but he takes notice of things and people. One person in particular, that is.





	Tender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sinnimonbuns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinnimonbuns/gifts).



> Silly, silly boys. Inspired by Sinni's Zarkon from our rp.  
> (In case you were wondering, this ficlet was written with Svrcina's [Island](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f41dgqET2uY) on repeat)

He plays with the condensation on his bottle of ale, drawing lines and circles, sometimes dots, all the while glancing up every once in a while at the bar, a crescent moon in brown-reddish wood, its plush red stools never fully occupied.

Alfor, the bartender, is always busy, always in continuous movement, as if he doesn’t know what standing still means. He never fails to greet his customers with a warm smile, making everyone feel welcomed no matter what time of the day or night they come in. Zarkon’s heart almost stopped in his chest when Alfor first offered him that kind of smile. He never knew an Altean male could be so— beautiful. He had heard plenty of the beauty the females possess and had even seen a couple of photos of them as he encountered this or that along his journey to explore as much of the space as he could.

Now, with him making a prolonged stop on this peaceful planet that hosts a wide variety of species, climates and a mix between cluttered cities and sparse habitats, he found that he was distracted from his life path with more ease than a baby Galra chasing a _rabbatoi_.

Alfor’s bar (which, in reality, did no belong to him, from what Zarkon has gathered in passing from bits and pieces of conversations) is located somewhere between those two extremes. It’s not too far from the city, but not too lost in the middle of nowhere, either.

Zarkon treks every day from his temporary living quarters to where the bar is. It takes him about a varga in good weather, two if the weather turns capricious. It’s a quiet bar, never a crowd to be bothered by, but never too quiet to feel the shutting down of the establishment looming at the corner.

All in all, Zarkon loves spending time here, and in the two and a half movements since he landed there, he has become a sort of regular. He doesn’t consider himself a _regular_ per se, but—

“Hello, regular patron,” Alfor says in Zarkon’s language, the same warm smile greeting him (and he might read too much into it, but it looks more brilliant when it’s addressed to him). “The same?”

Zarkon nods as if that’s the only gesture that his language amounts to. When does it not? Right, when he’s in anybody else’s presence but Alfor’s. This is unbecoming of a Galra of his status.

Alfor chuckles, a sound that makes Zarkon stop and stand to attention to catch every note, which is not unlike the attention the rare _pekanis_ ruffling its feathers instills in whomever manages to catch sight of the bird.

“Will bring your order soon, so why don’t you take a seat until then?”

It’s not necessary. Alfor knows that he always does that. He could even take a place on one of the many red stools and wait for Alfor to give him his brew, but no, Alfor established this little ritual between the two of them where he goes out of his way to serve Zarkon. He doesn’t do that with anybody else (and nobody seems to notice this little detail, but that’s because most probably nobody comes daily like Zarkon).

And then Alfor places the little pad with two meshed planets on a space background, worn out and faded almost entirely on the table, followed shortly after by the bottle of ale.

“Everything all right?” Alfor asks as he busies himself cleaning the rest of the table, although it was already clean to begin with.

Zarkon dares to glance up at him, just to have his gaze return to the bottle when he meets Alfor’s, nodding because Alfor’s eyes seem to hold a world of joy— and then some. It’s times like these that words bubble up on his tongue, words that have no reason to exist or be said out loud. He doesn’t know anything about the Altean. And he’s a Galra. Granted, that does not pose a problem in the least. But this is just Zarkon being too scared to be that forward.

Because if he could — have the courage — he’d talk non-stop about Alfor and his beauty, and how the white locks make his complexion younger and more adorable, how they look like _silkamis_ , a material that’s worth an entire generation of Emperors’ weight in quintessence, how he’s drawn to his lips because the way Alfor shapes words in any language has Zarkon mesmerized and thoroughly distracted, and the eyes that both seem to encompass endless mischief just waiting to be unleashed and eternal affection for everything that lives and breaths.

Sometimes he wonders what the person who wins Alfor’s heart will look like; he likes to imagine how in love they’d be, and how surprising each day would be. Every time, though, he likes to imagine that that person would be him, because he would cherish the Altean like he never cherished anyone— because Alfor deserves that, deserves to be embraced daily and showered in kisses and whispered sweet nothings into his ear just to see him smile or giggle or laugh.

Or even bat him away and tell him to stop all that nonsense.

And Zarkon would— for the span of time it would take for his lungs to fill with air anew.

But that’s just fantasy at this point. Pure imagination at work to keep him warm when his arms are not used in the arts of caressing another body.

He doesn’t catch the soft sigh that escapes Alfor’s as he looks at Zarkon, words crowding in his eyes, a wistful little smile cresting his lips, before he takes his leave and returns to tending the bar.

It’s quintents later that things take an ugly turn. Zarkon is minding his own business at the table that has become his (because he always finds it unoccupied, strangely enough, even when there are more patrons than usual), when a group of Sylras bustle in, raucous and so rude that it rubs Zarkon wrong. He wrinkles his nose at them, but he mentally shrugs. Different species, different characteristics.

He still keeps an eye on the bar.

They settle at a table and continue to blabber on about this ship race that will be held thirteen vargas from then somewhere in the next quadrant. He knew Syl at a conversational level, so most words elude him, especially if they’re uttered in a rapid succession which is the case at the moment. He tunes the rest out, uncaring about what they do in their free time.

Alfor is his usual self, an outstanding host— but anything Alfor does is outstanding to Zarkon so, really, he’s so biased on that front that he doesn’t even pretend otherwise. He’s aware that his crush developed into something too big and serious to have him go and poke at it with a ten-feet mulras, so he swirls the ale in his bottle and takes a swig.

“I kindly ask you to leave this establishment.” Is what filters into Zarkon’s thoughts and he looks to the side only to see Alfor’s body, taut and closed off, a serious expression on his face, as he stands in front of the gang’s table.

Zarkon has time to remark on how perfect and smooth Alfor’s Syl sounds before his own body tenses in anticipation, hand gripping the chill bottle in his big hand, increasing the pressure with each passing tick, because the occupants of the table pause, threat caught in the air between them, and then one of them leans his slimy forearms on it while the others put their hands on the gadgets they hold on their belt.

He doesn’t catch what the one in the middle tells Alfor, but he sees Alfor’s expression darkening and it all happens in a split tick: Zarkon’s bottle shatters in his hand as Alfor jumps to grab the Sylras’ shirt and pull him over the table.

From then on, everything goes downhill and fast. Zarkon’s memory of the fight holds only punches and kicks and flashes of white hair. Everything else is a white noise and a blur of colors in his head.

The next thing he knows is that Alfor is looming over him, a worried expression cresting his usually serene face. The sight of a darkening bruise high on his cheek has Zarkon’s hand there, fingers caressing the cheek as if he was afraid that he might break the skin.

At that, Alfor’s eyes widen in surprise before a soft smile curves his lips and has crow feet gather at the corners of his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Alfor asks, and Zarkon knows he’s frowning because the action pulls at something on his forehead.

That question is wrong. He’s fine. How can he not be? He’s big, and broad, and a Galra, and— his left side hurts, as well as various points on his body.

“What happened?” he manages to croak, his voice deeper than it normally is.

Alfor sighs in both relief and amusement. “You jumped into the fry and got knocked out.”

That’s worse than the beating he seems to have received. He had failed to protect his lo— bartender. Even by his standards, that substitute sounds so laughable that he might as well go back to call Alfor the word that has been circling his head non-stop since their first interaction. Maybe Alfor doesn’t feel the same way as Zarkon does and this is just his gentle side showing, but he can hope.

He has nothing else but this hope— hope that Alfor feels more than these noble emotions. But isn’t love the noblest of them all? Why can’t he have what his heart most desires?

“Are you okay?” Alfor asks again.

“First you,” Zarkon says and has Alfor look at him as if he’s not making any sense.

Well, he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Not out loud, but in his mind those two words make perfect sense.

Then Alfor chuckles. “Even if you don’t explain yourself, your face is the most wonderful expressive thing I have seen in a Galra. Usually, you’re all so grumpy and frowny— makes one afraid to approach you. But I know that you’re soft at heart.”

A grumble rises in his throat. That is such a high insult for his kin that he doesn’t voice his dissatisfaction because the light flush on his cheeks would confute his own words. The grin on Alfor’s lips looks like it is a brave thing keeping yapping _gorsans_ in the form of giggles at bay.

“I’m okay,” Alfor says, soft and vulnerable, lowering his gaze, but then he looks up at Zarkon, the amiable expression back again. Zarkon wants to see more of the previous one. He craves that. “You look like you’re thinking too much to be good,” he says, laughter caught in his words. “Think less, speak more.” He caresses Zarkon’s side of face with the back of his fingers.

Zarkon is not melting. His bone structure is just fusing together like melted metal: slow and steady. Not a problem. He has (not) experienced this before, it is perfectly normal in a Galra.

“That is inadvisable,” he says in his gruff voice, which make it sound like he’s grumpy, which is untrue. He’s just caught up in so many thoughts and emotions that he has no means how to parse between them.

Alfor chuckles. “Why? Are you afraid you might say things that you don’t want to?” He waits, but Zarkon neither acquiesces nor denies. “Don’t worry, I have heard worse than whatever you might say. I assure you.”

Now, more than ever, the words are struggling to get out, to jump off, to crash into Alfor with all that it entails, consequences be damned.

“I feel that my thoughts would be too much for this situation— for you.”

He lets his hand fall from Alfor’s face, but Alfor’s hand catches it around his shoulder level, his grip strong, but not oppressing. Just there, a comforting warmth. Zarkon’s eyes widen at the gesture as Alfor’s stay focused and shrouded.

“Try me.”

Zarkon’s heart is galloping in his chest, tattooing its shape into his rib cage. He opens his mouth to speak, but there is so much to utter that he’s left soundless. His face crumbles and he lowers his gaze, ashamed that he can’t be brave enough right now, that he can’t get the heavy feelings off of his chest.

Alfor’s hand on his cheek makes him look up in surprise, but then his other comes to join on Zarkon’s face and without warning Alfor _pinches_ his cheeks. Zarkon is too stunned to react in any other way but to have that feeling show in his eyes, so Alfor pinches harder, which is when the pain registers.

“ _Ow, ow, ow_!”

Alfor grins with an edge to it. “There, better. Now I feel better.” He sighs and hangs his head. “I honestly have no idea what to do with you. You come here regularly, have your regular meals and drinks, I always smile at you and keep the table that you always sit at free in anticipation for you to come by and then you decide that it’s a good idea to jump into the fry that _I_ instigated because of— what? Some misplaced feelings of a noble soul?”

“Am I… being told off right now?”

Alfor blinks at that, and then he releases a startled laugh, returning to pinch those cheeks in such a way as to have Zarkon grimace and express his hurt (but doing nothing to take Alfor’s hands off).

“Do you want to be told off?” Alfor asks. “I can do that, but what I was trying to say is that I _know_ you’ve been keeping an eye on me since you first came here, so unless you are trying to find the perfect opportunity to kidnap me and sell me on the black spacemarket, then I believe that we need to talk.”

Zarkon’s face scrunches up at the mention of kidnapping and black spacemarket, but then glances sideways, still propped on the panels covering the bar and Alfor still kneeling besides him, the room seemingly deserted.

“I have developed— feelings that… might be misplaced.”

“Are they bad?”

Zarkon looks up at Alfor as if Alfor slapped him. “No, they aren’t. They’re just… intense and could come across as overbearing.”

Alfor’s eyebrows rise on his forehead. “Might I know the recipient of those feelings?”

He has to glance at Alfor several times before he gathers the courage to speak up.

“It’s you.”

Alfor pinches Zarkon’s cheeks once again. “I might leave permanent marks on them if you continue to be this adorable.” He caresses the abused areas and then lets his hands glide down— on Zarkon’s chest. Right on top of his racing heart. _Stars_ , but he surely must feel that. “I must apologize, though, for teasing you so. I simply couldn’t resist.” He grins lopsided and Zarkon is done for.

“I love you,” he says without taking his brain to the audit.

Alfor’s eyes become plates of I-did-not-expect-that, the darkening color in his cheeks exalting his Altean marks. Zarkon wants to touch them, but Alfor seems positively flustered, and Zarkon’s afraid that his gesture might not be received well.

“Let it be clear,” Alfor mutters, lowering his gaze for the second time. Zarkon is — for lack of a better word — _enamored_ with this creature. “That this is the _only_ time you’re going to see me blush.” To which Zarkon startles Alfor with a deep, rumbly laughter.

“I can think of a couple of other ways that I could bring forth that effect.”

“Oh, so you do have a teasing bone in your body besides your uncommon silence.”

“I can’t very well let you be the only one who teases, can I? It is unbecoming of a Galra.”

Alfor chuckles and shakes his head, then looks up at Zarkon through his eyelashes. “What should I call you?”

Zarkon grins and Alfor’s eyes widen at the handsomeness of his features. “You could start with “darling”, “my dear”, and then move on to “love”.”

Alfor batts at Zarkon’s chest. “Stop taking advantage of the soft spot that you have in my heart, _my Galra_.”

It didn’t as much strike his heart as it went straight to Zarkon’s dick. Zarkon dares to cup Alfor’s cheek and lean forward until they can both feel the other’s soft puffs on their chins.

“If you kiss me right now I won’t let you leave this establishment until I utterly ravish you.”

“You shouldn’t steal lines from your elders,” Zarkon murmurs, focused on Alfor’s lips.

“Pah, I’m sure I have more decaphoebs than you, Mister I-barely-look-old-enough-to-drink-the-brew-that-I-always-order.”

At that Zarkon laughs and lets his head lean on Alfor’s shoulder instead. Alfor’s hand comes to rest on his nape, the other arm going around Zarkon’s back to keep him close and Zarkon gathers this Altean within his big and strong arms, which apparently makes him melt in them, a relieved sigh warming Zarkon’s neck.

“Does—” The nervousness peeks once again. “Does this mean that you feel the same?”

Alfor nuzzles his neck and Zarkon automatically places kisses alongside Alfor’s. “I forgot I need to spell things out for you Galra. Yes, Mister Regular Customer, I have fallen for you, too.”

“It’s Zarkon,” he murmurs into Alfor’s skin, already his entire being attuned to the Altean.

“Fitting.”

They both end up leaving trails of kisses on each other’s neck. Neither dares to do more than that because they both know that they wouldn’t be able to stop there.

**Author's Note:**

> Voltron [tumblr](https://nutcracker-shi-tsu.tumblr.com/)


End file.
